


Of Dilaudid and Dreams

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But it's prescription drugs and used correctly, Doctor!Sherlock and Patient!John, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Literal Sleeping Together, beginning relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 16:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: John had been shot, and it wasnotokay. Regardless of what the doctors and nurses had said when they'd discharged John, regardless of what John had said the entire way home in the back of the cab, it was notfine. Nothing wasfineabout this situation at all.





	Of Dilaudid and Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This started as something that was going to be smutty, but ended up fluffy. Very fluffy. Once I got into it, I realized Sherlock wouldn't even blur the lines of consent with John. So you get this fluffy piece instead.

John had been shot, and it was _not_ okay. Regardless of what the doctors and nurses had said when they'd discharged John, regardless of what John had said the entire way home in the back of the cab, it was not _fine_. Nothing was _fine_ about this situation at all.

Sherlock tossed money at the cab driver and quickly ran to Watson's side before the stubborn army doctor could attempt to get out on his own. He helped him out of the car, an arm firmly around his waist as John sighed heavily. “Sherlock, it barely nicked my arm. It's a flesh wound. I'm _fine_ , really.”

The consulting detective scoffed. “Yes, well, you're unstable on your feet. Dilaudid will do that to you.” John didn't argue with that, and he let Sherlock help him up the steps, first to the front exterior door and then to the flat. Sherlock deposited John into his chair and busied himself making tea. “You saved my life,” he stated as he clicked the electric kettle on.

“Not the first time,” John replied with a half shrug. His right arm was in too much pain to shrug, but he supposed that was a good thing. No nerve damage.

“You were _shot_ ,” Sherlock added as if that changed things.

John laughed. “Not the first time.”

Sherlock didn't see the humour; John could tell by the way he forcefully placed the mugs on the counter. “What is the Watson obsession with jumping in front of bullets for me?” Sherlock mumbled.

John didn't answer. At least not immediately. That had been a bit of a low blow and brought back memories that were still too raw for John. He inhaled shakily before saying softly, “I didn't jump in front of a bullet. I tackled you out of the way. It _barely_ hit me.”

“There was so much blood,” Sherlock choked out. He was used to blood at crime scenes when victims were already dead. He was there when Mary had bled out; he'd watched men's skulls explode with blood and brain matter. The blood wasn't the problem. The fact it was pouring from John so heavily because of _him_ and the fact he was supposed to just be _okay_ with it, that he was just supposed to accept John would live, _that_ was the problem.

John could hear Sherlock pouring the hot water into the mugs and he became aware of the scent of steeping tea. He closed his eyes as the room spun slightly from the pain medication and leaned his head back against the chair. “Flesh wounds bleed a lot, but it isn't dangerous. I'm okay. 'M just tired.”

“That's also the Dilaudid,” Sherlock said. There was nothing for him to do but wait for the tea to steep. It was the longest five minutes of his life, second only to the eight minutes it had taken the ambulance to arrive for John earlier that evening.

John was only half awake when Sherlock tapped his left shoulder and handed him a warm mug. He took a sip of the tea almost automatically as Sherlock haphazardly threw himself into the chair across from Watson's. It was awkward using his left hand, but John couldn't trust the grip on his right, yet, and he didn't relish the idea of lifting his arm to drink. “You'll take the bed, of course,” Sherlock stated. “I can sleep in the chair.”

John was groggy, and it took a minute for his brain to put meaning to Sherlock's words. “I can sleep in my own bed, Sherlock.”

“This is easier. Your next dose of Dilaudid is due in three hours and you'll need to eat before you take it, plus there are dressing changes. You may also need something else between now and then,” Sherlock stated before sipping his tea. The concern Sherlock felt was obvious in his voice. It was also obvious he wouldn't let it go. When Sherlock had gotten an idea in his head, he rarely let it go- he was like a wolf who's jaw had latched into its prey.

“I can change my own dressings-”

“With your non-dominant hand?”

John sighed. He was so tired, so very tired, an effect of adrenaline, blood loss, and the pain medication that was pumping through his veins. But there were many reasons he didn't want to sleep in Sherlock's bed with Sherlock watching over him all night, reasons he wasn't ready to disclose. “I should warn you I snore,” he said suddenly, an effort to dissuade Sherlock from his course of action.

“No. You don't,” Sherlock replied rolling his eyes and sipping his tea. In all the years he'd known John Watson, he'd rarely if ever, witnessed the man snoring. Maybe when he was sick or sleeping in a particularly awkward position, but otherwise, the man could sleep silently and at the drop of a dime.

“I have nightmares,” John countered. He should have known Sherlock would see through his lie; it wasn't even a particularly good one. His eyes felt heavy and he took a sip of tea to stave off the sleep threatening to overcome him.

Now there. That was true. John sometimes awoke breathlessly, shaking and sweating. Sometimes he cried out as he awoke, sometimes the cry was a name ('Sherlock!'  or 'Mary!' or the names of soldiers Sherlock had never met). Sherlock wondered what he dreamt about when it was his own name John cried out. Was it the Fall? Still? This many years later? Or was it other, nameless fears?

“So do I,” Sherlock whispered. His hand shook a bit and he set his tea down. His voice was louder and steadier when he spoke again. “Still it's easier if-”

“I won't be able to hear Rosie,” John protested. His eyes opened wide and he tried to stand. “I need to get Rosie.”

“Mrs. Hudson agreed to watch her all night,” Sherlock said, and John collapsed back into the chair relief painted onto his face. “I called her while you were getting stitched up at the A&E.”

John sipped his tea again, even though it wasn't doing much to keep him awake, he did feel like it was preventing him from being completely foggy headed, though. “Thank you,” he said softly. His eyes slid closed again and he desperately searched for a reason not to sleep in Sherlock's bed, something that would convince the other man, but he kept coming up short. “I don't want to take your bed from you, Sherlock. You rarely sleep as it is.”

“Which is precisely why I don't need it.”

“Share it with me,” John said before he could stop himself. Lovely. It seemed the pain medication was messing with his inhibitions, causing him to say the first thing that came to mind when he could no longer find reasons not to crawl into Sherlock's bed and sleep blissfully.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.

John's eyes snapped open in surprise and swept over Sherlock almost frantically. He hadn't expected the consulting detective to agree. Sherlock normally balked at John even entering his room, much less sharing a bed with him. “Fine?”

“Yes, John, it's _fine_. You're fine. It's all fine,” Sherlock's lips pursed a bit and John had the faint sense the other man was making fun of him in some way he couldn't quite figure out, which was frustrating, but he chuckled anyway.

He forced himself to be serious because Sherlock didn't join his laughter. “Really?”

He nodded once, dark hair bobbing with the motion, and stood gracefully. “Come on, let's get you to bed. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

John couldn't think of a reason to argue, and after a few seconds, he shifted awkwardly to put his tea on the table next to him. The table was on the right side, where it was comfortable normally, and he had to cross his body to get it set just right. The motion caused searing white pain to shoot through his arm and he just barely stopped from crying out.

Sherlock was watching him closely, worry showing clearly on his face, but he didn't try to help. There were certain things not worth fighting over and helping John with a teacup was one of them. It took John a while to get out of the chair, but Sherlock waited patiently, letting the other man lead the way down the hall, moving as slowly as he needed to.

The taller man disrobed without hesitation, toeing off shoes and pulling off socks and throwing them into a corner. John wondered if this was how Sherlock always undressed and if he were always so haphazard with his suit that was unceremoniously being thrown into the floor. Maybe this one just needed to be dry cleaned, or maybe Sherlock was too tired to care anymore.

Watson, however, was struggling with undressing. The shoes were easy, but the socks took work; he had to sit on the edge of the bed and bring the socks to him because bending over with however many milligrams of Dilaudid in his system was not advisable. He looked down at the shirt he was wearing with a strange sense of melancholy; they'd had to cut his jumper and undershirt off of him to stitch him up - not that they could have saved them due to the blood stains anyway - and Lestrade had brought him a police issue PT t-shirt so he wouldn't have to leave the A&E in a hospital gown. He loved that jumper.

With a heavy sigh, he tucked his left arm into the shirt, lifted it over his head and then pulled it from his right arm with minimal jostling. It still hurt, but it was a technique he had mastered in reverse when he'd been shot in the Army. His trousers were problematic.

He glanced up to find Sherlock watching him with an amused expression. He stood slowly, still staring at the button and zip as if it had betrayed him; the fingers of his right hand were not willing to cooperate with such detail work and he was nowhere near ambidextrous. “Alright, I could use some help,” he conceded.

Holmes crossed the few steps to him, popped open the button on his trousers and let down the zip abruptly. His trousers hit the floor with a heavy thud, and John’s sluggish brain mused that under other circumstances and with a bit more reverence that might have been… sexy. As it was, he almost lost his balance as he stepped out of his trousers and attempted to kick them away, so he wouldn’t trip over them in the morning. He had to grab onto Sherlock’s shoulder to prevent himself from falling and the sudden movement caused the room to tip precariously.

When the room righted itself, John became aware of Sherlock’s steady hand on his waist, warm and firm. _Kiss him_. John swayed forward with the impulse but managed to stop himself, instead sliding into the bed and under the covers. His eyes drifted closed just a moment later. “Would you like to borrow a pair of pyjamas?” Sherlock asked.

“Death traps,” John replied.

“Pardon?”

“You’re half a foot taller than me. Any of your pyjamas would be a death trap in the morning; I’d trip and break my neck. Besides I sleep in my pants anyway,” John opened his eyes now as he felt the other side of the bed shift with Sherlock’s weight. He rolled over onto his left arm a bit awkwardly so that he could see his friend as they spoke.

“You always come out wearing them,” Sherlock replied. He settled into the bed, blue eyes locked onto John’s face with such intensity John couldn’t help but flush a little bit. _Kiss him_ , he thought, but he stopped himself again.

“Common courtesy. I’m not traipsing around the flat in only my pants. Besides I notice you just got into bed without pyjamas, so I’m deducing you also sleep only in pants, but you’re usually out in the sitting room with pyjamas and a dressing gown,” John countered with a grin.

“Almost,” Sherlock conceded, his grin matching John’s. There was a mischievous sparkle in his eye though, and John couldn’t help but wondering if Sherlock was having a laugh.

“Almost? What did I get wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t sleep in pants,” Sherlock started laughing then full-on, and John wasn’t sure if he was laughing out of some sort of embarrassment or because he was joking.

“No. You sleep starkers?” John gasped. Sherlock nodded once in confirmation. “Gah! It’s always something!” John said with a laugh. He was half-expecting that Sherlock was teasing, so he followed it up. “No. Really? Naked?”

Sherlock nodded again, managing to keep a straight face this time. “For at least five years, I’ve been sleeping in the room underneath you naked on a nightly basis. Why do you think I always yell at you for just barging into my room? How do you think I ended up at Buckingham Palace in naught but a bed sheet?” Sherlock started laughing again.

John flushed at the memory and started laughing, again too. “No… really? You can’t do that once Rosie gets older!”

“I know,” Sherlock replied still chuckling a bit. John couldn’t help but think how much he enjoyed laughing with Sherlock. His best friend’s laugh was always contagious. He was still smiling as Sherlock’s face turned serious and he reached out and brushed John’s hair from his eyes, his fingertips resting gently on John’s cheek. “John, about tonight… you mustn’t ever do something like that again,” he said softly.

“I’m not going to just let you die,” John said with a heavy sigh. He felt like his heart might erupt from his chest at any moment. He almost wasn’t certain if Sherlock was actually touching him so sweetly or if he were hallucinating from the drugs.

“If the choice is me or you, it must be you. You must live. Rosie needs you. You do realise… if something were to happen to you, they wouldn’t let me keep her. I’m a sociopathic drug addict with questionable morals and a rather stark tendency to get blown up, shot at, or stabbed.”

“But-”

“No arguments,” Sherlock said with a frown, and he finally removed his fingers from John’s cheek. John felt like he was aching from the lack of touch as if he had become used to it already. “I need you to stay alive, John.”

John nodded once. “Okay, Sherlock. I’ll do my best to stay alive, but I can’t promise you I won’t save your life again. I’ll save it as many times as it needs saving. I… I’ve lost too much. I can’t lose you.” _Kiss him._ This time, John didn’t ignore the impulse he leaned forward, his lips tentatively brushing against Sherlock’s almost chastely. The other man froze, and John could tell he’d forgotten to breathe.

But then he inhaled and slid closer, his hand moving to cup John’s face and deepen the kiss. The moment their lips parted, and their tongues touched, John forgot everything, all rational thought stopping. His good arm was pinned to the bed and he wasn’t exactly about to go using his right arm to pull Sherlock close. Instead, he hooked a leg over the other man’s waist and pulled him closer. They were both half-hard already.

Sherlock broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “John… we can’t. Not tonight. You need rest… and should probably be sober.”

“I’m not high,” John argued.

“Dilaudid,” Sherlock challenged.

John laughed a bit and tried to shrug, failing miserably. “Point taken. Still, I’ve wanted this for so long… for years. This isn’t the Dilaudid talking.”

“Maybe not, but I’d rather be certain,” Sherlock said softly. With visible reluctance, he pulled away from John and turned off the bedside light. “Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” That night, instead of nightmares, John dreamt of years of kisses shared with Sherlock, his sleep only interrupted when Sherlock woke him to take his next pill and change the dressing on his wound. Thankfully, the dream became reality, and eventually, Holmes and Watson became Holmes-Watson. Many years later the two retired to a cottage in the countryside with beehives and honey with frequent visitations from their daughter Rosamund. And although he’d never admit to it, John Holmes-Watson was pleased he’d been foolish and gotten shot while tackling Sherlock to the ground, because if he hadn’t, he’d have never been able to see what would become of Dilaudid and dreams.


End file.
